


gotta let go of all of our ghosts

by youjik33



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, F/M, implied past Peter/Gavin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 19:08:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7373875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youjik33/pseuds/youjik33
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last time Monica had seen Gavin Belson, Peter had still been alive.</p>
<p>Takes place sometime around s2e01.</p>
            </blockquote>





	gotta let go of all of our ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote my own kinkmeme prompt. Is that allowed?
> 
> Title stolen from Adele, because apparently everyone in fandom has independently been listening to "25" and thinking about Gavin/Peter and being sad.

The last time Monica had seen Gavin Belson, he’d been scowling from the audience as Pied Piper collected their prize at TechCrunch Disrupt. She never could have imagined that a few weeks later she would be standing outside his office desperately craving a cigarette and holding a taped-up cardboard box. On top of the box, written neatly in black marker, was the message _To be delivered to Gavin Belson on the event of my death._ Peter’s signature was an illegible scrawl beneath the message.

At least four different Hooli employees had offered to take it from her since she’d arrived, but Peter’s instructions had been clear. She had to give it directly to Belson himself, and make sure he opened it. She was flattered that she had earned that kind of trust, but even though the box only weighed a couple of pounds, it felt heavy in her hands. She fidgeted on the couch in the waiting area, gripping the box tightly.

Gavin was making her wait. It was a classic power play, meant to indicate that his time was more valuable than anyone else’s. She couldn’t really muster up any annoyance, just a dull ache in her chest. Peter had never done that kind of thing. He valued punctuality. If Peter was running late it was always for a legitimate reason. In fact, in the years Monica had known him, only one person had ever been able to get him to stoop to taking any kind of petty, impractical actions.

“Gavin Belson is really to see you, Ms. Hall,” Gavin’s assistant said, poking her head out of the door. “Do you need some help with that box?”

“No, thank you,” Monica replied, though she did let her hold the door.

Monica had never personally been inside Gavin’s office, and she had to admit that it was a pleasant space, open and full of natural light. Gavin himself was standing in front of his desk, and he gave her a tight, forced smile when she entered.

“Ms. Hall. A pleasure to see you again., though I wish it were under different circumstances.” He met her in the center of the room, looking down at the box with some confusion.

He was polite and somber, but she could tell it was a mask. If any actual emotion lay under it, she coldn’t quite tell.

“Mr. Belson. Peter requested that I give this to you in person,” she said, handing the box over.

“I see,” he said, confusion flickering over his face. “Well, thank you very much for your time.”

“He also requested that I stay to make sure you open it.”

He frowned slightly, and she suspected she knew what he was thinking: that this might be some kind of trick, one last attempt by Peter to pull one over on him even from beyond the grave. Monica honestly had no idea what was in the box, but she thought Peter’s request that she stay until Gavin opened it made sense. Peter would never put her in danger or want to implicate her in anything criminal, so the box almost certainly didn’t contain a glitter bomb, or toxic gas, or a venemous snake.

She watched Gavin look from the box and back to her as he thought it over.

“All right,” he said finally, carrying it over to his desk.

Monica flexed her fingers. There were red lines running across them from where the edges of the cardboard had dug into her skin.

Gavin slid a letter opener carefully under the tape and opened one of the flaps. He frowned down at its contents for a moment. “Thank you, Ms. Hall,” he said. “My assistant can show you back to the visitor lot, if you need help.”

That was clearly his signal for her to leave, but when she turned toward the door, something made her hesitate. Maybe it was the row of framed magazines on the wall, Gavin smugly grinning at her from multiple covers, a very different expression from the haunted look he was wearing now. Maybe it was her own grief, the way her arms felt empty and useless now that the box was gone. Maybe it was just basic curiosity. Whichever it was, she hesitated, turned around, and said, “If you need someone to talk to, I could stay.”

She had caught him off guard. Any other time she probably would have been proud of that. “Peter was a difficult man to get to know,” she continued. “And even more difficult to understand. We’re probably the two people who knew him best. Just consider it a standing offer. ” She had to pause for a second to compose herself; her voice had suddenly gone shaky, and she wasn’t sure how much she should actually say. “I... do know how close you two were,” she said. “I might be the only person he ever told about it. ...I’ll even sign an NDA if that would make you more comfortable.”

Gavin was staring at her, his lips pressed into a thin line. There was no mask now, and Monica was afraid she’d just pissed him off. But then he leaned over, pressed a button on his desk phone, and said “Patrice, Ms. Hall and I are in a private meeting and are not to be disturbed until further notice.”

He strolled across the room, where a pitcher sat on a little bar-style counter. “Would you like something to drink?” he asked as he poured a glass. “Cucumber-lemon infused spring water. It’s quite refreshing.”

“Yes, thank you,” she said.

They sat in silence for a few moments, sipping their water, Gavin at his desk and Monica in one of the chairs in front of it.

“Did you know what was in that box?” he asked finally.

“No,” she said. “I didn’t even know it existed until we read the will, and that didn’t specify.”

“Well, then, I’m sure you’re curious.” He reached into the box and pulled out a slim hardback book, sliding it across the desk so that she could get a better look. _How to Win Friends and Influence People_ , by Dale Carnegie.

“Peter hated that book,” she said, smiling despite herself.

“Yes, as I recall, he called it ‘utter nonsense’.” Gavin flipped the front cover of the book open, revealing the name _G. Belson_ written on the inside cover. “I lent him this copy in, oh, 1988 or ‘89? I had entirely forgotten about it.”

“I guess he wanted to make sure you got it back.”

“I suppose,” Gavin said. “Though I have no idea why he held onto it this long.” He pulled a second item out of the box: a copy of _Animal House_. On Betamax – its cardboard case was slightly scuffed at the edges. It had been one of Peter’s favorite movies, Monica remembered, despite his intense dislike of college, or maybe because of it.

“Was that yours too?” she asked.

Gavin nodded. “Also borrowed, back in the 80s. I actually remember looking for this, later. I didn’t even realize he still had it. And this... I’m not sure what this is.” The third item to come out of the box was a shirt, blue and black plaid flannel. “I suppose this was mine too,” he said thoughtfully. Gavin stared at it, as though there might be a hidden message stitched into the label, and as Monica watched his eyes widened, his face clouded. He stood, suddenly, turned, and threw the shirt toward the window. The fabric landed pitifully on the floor in a heap just a few feet away.

“Fuck,’ Gavin said. His shoulders were heaving, and she could hear him breathing hard, as if barely containing himself. And Monica was angry then, too, at Gavin and Peter both for being so childish and stupid, for dragging on their antagonism until it was too late. She was angry Peter for dying, and at herself, for being angry.

“Maybe you should go,” Gavin said softly, not turning around. “I’m sorry I--” He laughed, bitterly. “I didn’t mean to re-enact Brokeback fucking Mountain in front of you.”

Her anger deflated just as quickly as it had risen, leaving something deeper and more raw, something that went beyond sadness and into a kind of aching emptiness. For the first - and most likely only - time in her life, Monica felt sorry for Gavin Belson.

She probably should have gone. Instead she walked around the desk and reached out, putting her hand gently on the small of his back. Later she’d think about why, exactly, she’d done this. The space between them had just seemed so huge, so unbearable.

Gavin jerked at the touch, drawing a sharp hiss of breath. But when he turned he put his arms around her shoulders, and hers went around his waist, and they pulled each other close, as though they could save each other from drowning. With her pumps on they were nearly the same height, and when he cupped her cheek in his hand she leaned into his kiss desperately.

“Apologies,” he said when he pulled back. “That was out of line.”

“Don’t stop,” she said, and leaned in again.

They pulled each other onto one of the office’s sofas. She didn’t think she could stand to stop touching him, not yet. It was too huge, that hole in her chest where the grief was eating away. She didn’t know how to fill it; all she could do was this, use him to try to forget it for a while, the way she knew he was using her.

He seemed surprised when she fished the condoms out of her purse, but all he said was “Are you sure...?”

“I’m sure,” she said, aware as she said it that this was, at best, a less-than-healthy coping mechanism, and at worst, an utterly fucking terrible idea. But then she was sinking onto him, her skirt around her hips and his hands on her waist, and for a few minutes they moved together, breathed together, lost themselves in each other.

She wondered, as she re-adjusted her blouse and stepped into her dropped shoes, what the person who cleaned his office would think of the used condom in the trash can.

Gavin picked the plaid shirt off the floor, folded it neatly, and tucked it back into the box. He seemed to have regained his composure. “I trust,” he said, “that you’ll show discretion.”

“Absolutely,” Monica said, trying not to laugh. This wasn’t exactly something she planned on bragging about.

Still, she felt better. Lighter. The afternoon sun was dazzling as she stepped out of the building and boarded the Hooli shuttle to the visitor lot. She was already in her car, fumbling with her cigarette lighter, when she realized she was crying. She wasn’t even sure who she was crying for.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [the sun doesn't help](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7442185) by [adeleblaircassiedanser](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adeleblaircassiedanser/pseuds/adeleblaircassiedanser)




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